


Morning Sunlight

by slashscribe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Morning Sex, PWP, seriously so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashscribe/pseuds/slashscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thin band of soft morning light peeks between the curtains and stretches across John’s torso, laying dormant across his forearm, dipping into the space between his arm and his chest, illuminating his right nipple but just brushing the edge of his left, disappearing into his armpit, and reappearing again right over Sherlock’s eyes where his head rests, nestled against John’s shoulder.  Sherlock is not annoyed by the light’s intrusion on his sleep, not when it rests so soft and tantalizing on John’s skin, a work of unintentionally erotic art.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>A PWP with SO MUCH EMOTION.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> This is a quickly written PWP in response to some prompts by the very lovely bobenlugares and johnlockandwifi on tumblr. The prompts were morning sex and fluff. I got out of control and went extreme emotion overload as usual. A huge thank you to sherrllocked on tumblr for reading this over and assuring me it's postable!

A thin band of soft morning light peeks between the curtains and stretches across John’s torso, laying dormant across his forearm, dipping into the space between his arm and his chest, illuminating his right nipple but just brushing the edge of his left, disappearing into his armpit, and reappearing again right over Sherlock’s eyes where his head rests, nestled against John’s shoulder. Sherlock is not annoyed by the light’s intrusion on his sleep, not when it rests so soft and tantalizing on John’s skin, a work of unintentionally erotic art.

Slowly, softly, his hand drifts up from where it lies around John’s waist. His fingers just barely touch John’s skin; he doesn’t want to wake him, but he can’t resist the temptation to touch. He never can. In fact, he covets the feel of John’s skin against his fingers so much that he wants to close his eyes and put this moment in his mind palace, but then he’d miss the way the light peaks just-so against John’s nipple, so he resists.

John’s skin is warm and familiar and Sherlock lets his hand gently wrap around John’s ribs, lets the tips of his fingers press between John’s back and the sheet beneath him, lets his thumb sweep over his chest, so close to the tantalizing strip of light and yet not quite there. He nuzzles against John’s arm and draws closer, drapes his leg across John’s, rests his head on John’s chest rather than his shoulder. 

His eyes drift closed and he inhales John’s scent as he luxuriates in the warmth of his skin and the closeness of their bodies. Though it happens regularly now, it’s something he won’t – can’t – take for granted, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to it. He’s warm and content and feels the fuzzy edges of sleep pulling at him again when John shifts his legs a bit, moves his foot around until his toes brush against the Sherlock’s. It lulls Sherlock out of his near-sleep haze and he smiles and presses a sleepy kiss against John’s chest; he’d been enjoying his private exploration, but he’s always glad to have John awake and with him.

John’s arm shifts and curls around Sherlock’s upper back, and then he lets his fingers sleepily toy with Sherlock’s hair. This elicits a sleep-worn and rough hum of pleasure from Sherlock, and he instinctively presses his head towards John’s fingers.

“Morning,” John says. His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat. Sherlock shifts his hips, lets his thumb sweep higher on John’s chest, closer to his nipple. He doesn't reply, but a breathy sigh leaves his lips when John tugs on his curls the tiniest bit, not enough to hurt, just enough to be playful, and John shifts his leg, pressing it closer to Sherlock’s groin.

Sherlock feels warm and safe and loved and there’s a fluttering deep in his stomach. He wants to touch, to taste, to feel, to devour; he wants so much, but he doesn’t know where to start. He starts small: he lets his thumb swoop a little bit higher, just brushing the tip of John’s nipple, hardened in the cool morning air. John shivers, and Sherlock feels his cock harden and he presses another kiss to John’s chest, shifting his hips, letting John feel him. 

John lets out an involuntary groan, a breathy helpless sort of sound, worn with sleep but heartfelt just the same, and he tightens his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. 

“John,” Sherlock says reverently, letting his thumb sweep over the nub of John’s nipple again. He rubs it back and forth, back and forth, with no specific intent, but just enough to feel the texture, firm and familiar, against the pad of his thumb. Again, he presses a kiss to the skin of John’s chest, but he holds his mouth there for a moment, tasting John’s sleep-warm skin. He shifts until he’s got a better angle and he trails kisses along John’s chest until his mouth is where his thumb once was. The taste of John on his tongue is perfect, like a dream, and he gently kisses John’s nipple, caressing just as gently as the sun’s touch he’s just replaced. Gently, hesitantly, he swirls around it with his tongue, and he shifts until his hips are on top of John’s, and he’s pleased to feel that John is hard beneath him.

“Sherlock, Christ, mmm,” John says. He’s never good with words in the morning, and Sherlock feels a smile curl at his lips around John’s nipple. John’s fingers work their way into his curls again, and Sherlock can’t help but let out a pleased exhale, and John shivers. Sherlock kisses his chest again, then lets his teeth tease against John’s nipple. He knows John loves this, and he does, too; he loves anything that allows him to taste John, to know the feel of him on his tongue, to feel his cock harden, to hear his breaths quicken and feel his pulse elevate. 

He lets his tongue swirl around the nipple again, and then he nips at it, tugging just a bit with his teeth. He’s pleased when John moans and spreads his legs beneath him, slotting their cocks together at a better angle. 

Sherlock works his hand between John’s back and the mattress and pulls his chest closer, lets his tongue swirl, lets his teeth nip, and he feels as if he’s in heaven, surrounded by John, John’s cock hot and hard against his, John’s skin warm against him.

“Mm, love - love you,” John says, his words punctuated by a gasp, tightening his fingers in Sherlock’s hair again. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but he pauses for a moment, stills his lips, holds them there just for a moment like a kiss, ignores the way his stomach flutters and there is a fire in his veins pulling him towards John, ignores the way his heart pounds and his head spins because if he gives in, he won’t be able to focus, won’t be able to – 

But suddenly John is turning them over, and Sherlock is on his back. He likes this, the way John senses when it’s too much for him and takes over. He can’t think about it, though, not when in the same instant that he finds himself on his back, John’s lips are suddenly attached to his neck, to the spot between his neck and his shoulder that makes him shiver and he finds that he is clinging desperately to John’s back, and that he’s making sounds, soft breathy ones, and that it feels like his heart is crawling all over his skin, that he’s coming apart from the inside, that he will do anything anything anything if it means he can feel this even a moment longer.

John picks his head up and smiles at him, soft and open and – “John,” Sherlock says. “Please – I, please – “

He doesn’t know how he’s gone from a casual lie-in to desperate and wound-up and needy so quickly, but this happens with John on a regular basis; John is everything, John is his heart, his sun, his drug, his life, and he finds it hard to handle the idea that John is actually his, that he can feel these things, that John wants him, and sometimes the feeling creeps up on him and then hits him all at once, leaving him stunned, desperate, in disbelief. 

John presses a small kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Anything, love,” John says. “Anything you want.” His voice is soft, only just above a whisper. It’s hushed, intimate, spoken into the soft skin of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock shivers, closes his eyes, and feels his hips cant upwards towards John’s.

The spell of the morning hasn’t worn off; they’re both warm, pliant, hazy, sleepy. But arousal and desire sing sharp in Sherlock’s veins, and he swallows, looking up at John and curling his arms around John’s back, letting his legs spread wider. “You,” he says, voice earnest and rough. “I want you.” He pauses, thinks of staring at an empty chair for so long, thinks of staring at an empty space where a chair once was, thinks of a mustache that should never have been, of loneliness so all-encompassing he needed vices he hadn’t turned to in years just to make sense of it. “Please,” he adds, letting his fingers drift up and down John’s spine, eager to feel his skin, to be sure he’s there.

John’s still for a moment, just looking at him, his eyes soft and warm and open in a way that makes Sherlock shiver, and then he kisses him, gently shifting his hips, making Sherlock writhe beneath him and moan into the kiss. 

“You have me,” John says as he pulls away, his eyes flickering between Sherlock’s lips and his eyes. Sherlock cranes his neck up and they kiss once more, John settling his head back against the pillows. John kisses his jaw, trails his lips from his chin to just below his ear, nips his earlobe, shifts his mouth to the side of Sherlock’s neck. His mouth is hot and Sherlock moans helplessly, turned on and needy and desperate. 

“More,” Sherlock says, his hips jerking up to find John’s. He shifts until he can curl his leg around John’s waist, then gasps at the friction.

John kisses him again, and they kiss through the sour taste of morning until it’s no longer there, their bodies warm and flush together, their hips moving together to find the best friction and most pleasure. Sherlock can’t get enough of this, can’t get enough of John, can’t believe he can have this in his life. Their bedroom is quiet, save for the sound of the rustling bed sheets, of their breaths, of their lips. 

Sherlock breaks the kiss, though, and groans, his head tilting back, his chest heaving, pushing John up for a moment. “Wait, wait – “

John kisses his cheek softly in understanding and rolls to the side, leaning on one arm but staying close. He runs a hand up and down Sherlock’s upper arm, kisses his chin, the corner of his mouth, his temple. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock says after a moment. “It was – I – “

“It’s alright,” John murmurs. He cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, brushes it off his forehead tenderly. Sherlock blinks up at him, his heart beating fast at the way John is looking at him, the way John is touching him, the way John is treating him like he is something precious, like he is a gift. He feels splayed open and raw, like he is nothing but his heart, like John can see every inch of him, like John can deduce him down to the very last pore. It’s terrifying, but it’s exciting, exhilarating, and he swallows.

“John, I –” His blood is still pumping through his veins, and his cock is throbbing, though not as insistently as it had been just a moment ago. “I want –“

John kisses him again, but gently this time. He doesn’t lie on top of him yet, just leans over him from the side, and Sherlock reaches up for him, needing to feel him, needing that reassurance.

“I know,” John says. And he does, Sherlock realizes. He knows what Sherlock is, he knows who Sherlock is. And he hasn’t left.

“Please,” Sherlock says. His voice is barely a whisper, and John weaves his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and leans down to press their lips together, soft and chaste. 

John kisses him again, then leans up on his arm. He trails his hand downs Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock shivers, his eyes never leaving John’s. John’s hand lingers on Sherlock’s hip, his thumb stroking over the hipbone, his fingers pressing into his side. “Yeah?” John asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, not daring to tear his eyes away.

John kisses him and Sherlock curls his leg around John’s waist again. John reaches for the lube, still within arm’s reach from the night before, and breaks the kiss to get some on his fingers. He giggles when half of his squirt lands on the bed sheets, and Sherlock can’t help but join, and then John is collapsed on his chest, giggling and giggling, and Sherlock is laughing with him, tears coming to his eyes, his chest shaking, his arms automatically curling around John’s back. 

Sherlock shifts, though, and their cocks rub together deliciously, and a shiver goes down his spine and he settles, and John shifts on top of him and looks down at him, laughter still dancing in his eyes, and Sherlock’s heart beats faster and in the span of one heartbeat to the next, John is kissing him, long and hard. He pulls away and Sherlock strokes his long fingers up and down John’s sides as John gets a proper bit of lube on his hand, then grins at him before kissing Sherlock’s chest, then licking and nipping his way down, making Sherlock shiver in anticipation.

He kisses the side of Sherlock’s cock, nuzzles his nose against it. Sherlock’s breath hitches and he’s nearly undone by just the sight, and then John carefully presses a finger inside him. He moans, relishes the familiar sensation. 

“John,” he pants. “Just – it’s fine, I’m fine, last night –”

“I know,” John says, his voice rough and breathless, then kisses the bases of his cock again. “Want it to be good for you.”

Sherlock moans helplessly and his hips jerk upward when a second finger joins the first and they unerringly find his prostate. Sparks shoot up his spine and he bites his lip helplessly. “John, I can’t – you need to –” His voice is rough and he’s desperate for friction, desperate for John to be inside him, desperate for release. His entire body is wound tight and he’s trembling, shaking with need.

“Alright, love, alright,” John says. He runs his hand up and down Sherlock’s side and Sherlock shivers, over-sensitive, and John kisses his hip, his lips feather-light, as he slides in a third finger. 

Sherlock moans, his hips bucking up again. “John,” he says. “John, please.”

John kisses him and then kneels between Sherlock’s legs, reaching for the lube again. Sherlock watches helplessly, his legs trembling. He presses them to John’s sides to still them, and John shifts, bending to press a kiss to his bent knee, wrapping his arm around it as he squirts lube into his palm. 

Sherlock watches as John spreads the lube over his cock, his own cock hard and leaking against his stomach. He groans in anticipation, his stomach fluttering. He lets his legs relax so John can move and he wraps them high around John’s waist as soon as he can, and John leans down to kiss him, slowly, and Sherlock reaches for him desperately, eager to touch him, to feel him. 

John breaks the kiss and carefully lines himself up and he pushes in, going steadily in until he’s all the way. John groans and Sherlock tilts his head back, squeezing his eyes closed and breathing shallowly, trying to keep himself under control, but it’s so much, and even though it’s only been a few hours since they’ve done this last, it feels like he’s coming home after years away, like everything is slotting into place, like electricity, like fire, like magic, and he squeezes his fingers into John’s back, holding him close, trying to calm himself. 

“Jesus you’re fucking gorgeous,” John says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck –“

Sherlock reaches for him and pulls his head down for a kiss, startling John at first, but John melts into it easily, opening his mouth, their tongues sloppily pressing together, and then John shifts his hips, settling deeper into Sherlock.

Sherlock feels split open and he loves it. He shifts his legs until John’s as deep as he can go, then rocks his hips and delights in the moan John lets bleed into their kiss.

John pulls away from the kiss and braces his forearms on either side of Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him, holding on as John pulls out and pushes back in, slowly, torturously. Sherlock pulls his head down for a kiss, and John complies eagerly, and it’s slow and sensuous. Sherlock is trembling beneath him, his body on fire, pleasure swimming through his veins so sharp it’s almost painful, but John keeps the pace slow and steady, languid like the morning sunlight.

“John,” Sherlock gasps out, breaking the kiss. He feels as if he’s left his body, as if he can’t possibly be experiencing this. “Please, please, I can’t – “

John starts to move faster, pushing in as far as he can go, snapping his hips just the way Sherlock likes it. Sherlock groans at the onslaught of pleasure, just barely grasping the thrill of one thrust before John is back again. He is at John’s mercy now, he knows, because he is on the edge, so close and desperate, the haze of sensation blurring together and washing over him relentlessly. John pulls on Sherlock’s leg, pushes it until it’s over his shoulder and Sherlock groans and clings to John’s back, ignoring the stretch in his muscles. He digs his nails in, pants hard and fast, unable to control himself, shifting his hips to meet John’s, John’s every thrust punctuated with a groan he can’t stop.

John goes faster and faster, harder and harder, and Sherlock takes one hand away from John’s back to grip the slats of the headboard behind him to give them stability. John groans, loud and helpless, and Sherlock feels it starting, feels a tingle at the base of his spine, but he can’t do anything to stop it, or to warn John, and suddenly the pleasure overtakes him even though he hasn’t even touched himself and he is pared down to nothing but intense pleasure pouring through his veins, and he chokes off his groan as his body tenses, his back arching, his head falling back, one hand pushing hard against the headboard and the other pulling John close, his legs tightening around John, pulling him in, and John snaps his hips hard and then Sherlock is moaning and coming hard, his body tense and coiled and his release spurting between them as his hips jerk up to meet John. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, that’s it love that’s it oh you’re perfect fuck love, fuck, fuck – “

Sherlock feels John pumping harder and faster through the haze over his body and mind and the rhythm starts to stutter and then John pushes in and holds his hips still as his body goes taut and Sherlock presses himself as close as he can because he wants to relish this, wants to feel it forever, and then John comes hard inside Sherlock and Sherlock moans again, oversensitive but euphoric and in love. John collapses on top of him, his weight steady and reassuring, and he carefully strokes Sherlock’s face, his breath coming out in warm, fast puffs against Sherlock’s’ neck.

Sherlock is lying still in a post-orgasmic haze, and his eyes shift to take in John, and then he breathes in, sharp, and turns, pushing John onto his back, lying on top of him, wrapping his limbs around him as tight as he can. “John,” he manages, just barely able to talk.

“Shh,” John says, clumsily petting Sherlock’s hair, stroking up and down his back, his own heart beating fast, still out of breath and lethargic.

Sherlock lies still, clinging to John, unable to move. He knows they’re bound to stick together, but he doesn't’ care; he needs to be close to John. It’s always like this for him. Sex with John is not physical; it’s everything, it’s all the things he’s never believed in, it’s love and it’s metaphysical and it’s spiritual and it’s too much for him to understand. The only thing he can understand is John, and he curls tighter, breathes in his scent, presses his head into John’s neck, reveling in the feel of John’s fingers in his hair. His limbs feel heavy and warm, and he is settled on top of John, trusting and pliant and as close as he can possibly be and yet he wants to be closer. 

It’s quiet for a while, save for the thumping of Sherlock’s heart loud in his ears. He can’t seem to come down, and John is stroking his hair, running a hand up and down his back, kissing him, petting him, murmuring.

“I love you,” Sherlock finally manages, voice soft, low, his words disappearing into the safety of John’s skin. “I always have. I always will.”

John kisses the top of his head, and his fingers gently massage Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock is still clinging to him, but he relaxes a fraction. “I know,” John murmurs. “I know, Sherlock. I love you, too. Always.”

Sherlock relaxes further against John, his stomach fluttering, his mind quiet, his veins thrumming with John, his heart pounding.

The sunlight streams in the window still, a little brighter now, and it stretches across John’s shoulder, disappears in the crevices between their bodies, lingers on the planes of Sherlock’s back where John’s hand dips in and out of the light as he strokes up and down Sherlock’s spine, and the morning goes on. Sherlock closes his eyes, warm and content, surrounded by John, alive, in love, grateful, flayed open and yet more whole than he’s ever been.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I would love to hear what you think...this is my first PWP in ages, so I'm feeling a little insecure. Also, if anyone has any johnlock prompts they want to add to my list, let me know! I'm slashscribe on tumblr - feel free to send me a message there. Thanks for reading!


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